


The Rose and the Dagger

by WildConcerto



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Period Typical Attitudes, Persia, Very AU, because hey what did you expect, the violence warning is really there just in case for now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildConcerto/pseuds/WildConcerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik never left Persia and is still the feared Angel of Doom. When his infaillbility as official Court assassin is questioned, he is forced into accepting a bride from the Shah... and this time, he knows he cannot possibly refuse her like all the others. Kay/ALW mashup, Erik/Meg, very AU. Rated T for violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I said it in the tags, and I'll say it again: this story is very, very, VERY AU, and it’s going to be a big mishmash of Kay and ALW universes. Be braced, and I’ll answer all questions if there are any confusions, so feedback is of course appreciated. This story comes from a mix of “Why on Earth aren’t there any Erik/Meg-in-Persia-AUs while there are some Erik/Christine and Erik/OC ones” and also, a big little something that is a spoiler in this story and that I just can’t tell right away. 
> 
> Also – I hate to say this, but I’ll do my very best to have regular updates. College is a b*****, it gobbles up my time, and so does Tumblr and watching musical theatre bootlegs. I’ll do my very best to give more of my time to writing, but please remember that my education is very important and always goes first. Comments might help me to update more, though. *I’m not begging for comments you are*

* * *

 

He had to admit it had been quite easy to recognize her.

She hadn’t changed much. Perhaps her face was more stern and a bit wrinkled around the eyes. But there wasn’t a single touch of grey in her ebony hair, now pulled in a tight bun, and to his eyes, despite the fact that the average Frenchman could assume there was Spanish or Romani blood running in her veins, she seemed oh so very Persian.

She had chosen her refuge quite well: a runaway Persian spy was someone you were quite unlikely to encounter even in the very cosmopolite city of Paris. And especially in such a place like the Opera Populaire, and with such a function.

Then again, it wasn’t too surprising. Anouar had been one of the finest dancers of the Persian court, not to say the finest, forming quite the contrast with her brother: Nadir, even as a very young man, was the very image of austerity and order, while Anouar, as light as a feather, almost flying around with grace and ease, always smiling, could point to a man one night and by that simple gesture provoke his death barely a few hours later.

She had run away with that Frenchman and to this day, no one knew why. The Daroga had repeated again and again that it was like her. But she had carried with her secrets – secrets so great her sudden escape seemed like some sort of treason, made worse by the fact that she had run away with a foreigner.

Nadir had of course joined the hunt for his sister. If he didn’t, he would automatically be considered her accomplice and get beheaded. His search had been unsuccessful, and the only thing that managed to save his life, though he had never totally come back in grace, was that the Angel of Doom had assisted him in his hunt.

And to escape even the Angel of Doom’s chasing, one had to be either protected by Allah… or by demons.

Selim had succeeded where Nadir Khan and the Angel of Doom had failed, and would definitely supplant Nadir’s very shaky position as Daroga. As for the Angel of Doom, probably only the Khanum’s protection could protect him in some way… but that would only mean that she could definitely from then on manipulate him like a puppet.

On his side, even almost twenty years after her flight, he hadn’t given up. It did provide him a good reason to travel the world. With all those ambassadors who had come to the Persian court, his curiosity had been piqued, and the young man he was only dreamed now of all those cities and their wonders: Budapest, Vienna, Berlin, Rome, Venice, Paris, London… Selim had even considered, for a while, travelling to America. But Paris somewhat had a special charm for him, and so he had come back, today visiting the Paris Opera house and managing to find a way to enter in box 5, and being able to enjoy a ballet rehearsal without being seen from the stage. And thankfully so.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard the manager calling Anouar, interrupting the corps de ballet’s stage rehearsal, and smiled as he recognized every single one of her mannerisms. Those were the things you couldn’t change, not even with the best of disguises.

He then paid more attention to the rest of the corps de ballet, and then went to observe the prima ballerina as she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms and listened to the manager’s rambling. But he was quickly distracted by a small silhouette, her head covered in a mass of blonde curls, suddenly coming out of the group of dancers to rush towards the ballet mistress.

Both of them were like night and day. But there was something in their features – perhaps their eyes’ shape, or the way they seemed to slick the left side of their hair every thirty seconds or so, or perhaps their turned-up nose – which undeniably proved that they were mother and daughter.

Selim smiled. Now there was a twist he hadn’t expected.

* * *

 

A stranger would probably say that Madame Giry looked like the kind of mother who would sternly tell her chatterbox of a daughter to keep quiet, and especially after a day of hard work. On the contrary, it was one of the rare joys Mme Giry still had. To this point, her daughter was the only light in her life, and it was her who kept her going with that sort of dark sense of humor which showed that, beneath that hard shell, Antoinette Giry was still able to laugh. In her own way, of course.

“Do you think we’ll get to perform a ballet instead of an opera for Christmas, this year, maman? Monsieur Lefebvre has hinted that we may. It would be great since we did an opera in the last three years for Christmas. Christine should really audition this year for the production we’ll do in autumn for the new season. You should, really! _Hannibal_ is a really big production, and maybe we’ll do something less demanding!” she insisted, seeing her friend’s shaking her head. “You’d really need a good singing teacher. It’s hard to believe we’re not able to find one, especially with a city as big as Paris! Well, maybe when we will find one, lessons will be expensive – but maman, I promised Christine I would help her. I don’t mind, maman, really! You know how much Christine loves to sing…”

To this statement, Madame Giry couldn’t help but shrug. The only reason why Christine Daaé had managed to make it in the renowned Opera Populaire was thanks to her deceased father’s connections. At his death, not only the admirers of the great violinist Gustave Daaé had provided him a grand tomb, but they even had enough consideration to provide his orphaned daughter a future. And so Christine found herself at the Opera Populaire, and went from the ranks of the ballet rats to the corps de ballet, causing much tension for her privilege. In consequence, she had been rejected by the other ballerinas – all of them except Meg, of course, whose favorite occupation, Madame Giry thought with an inner smirk, was to play guardian angel with every helpless stray kitten she would find. Not that she minded: not at all, actually. She hoped that Meg’s vivacity would give Christine that fire she lacked but which seemed, to Mme Giry, not inexistent and probably buried deep somewhere; and on the other side, Christine’s serenity and timidity would perhaps temperate Meg’s spunk and give her a more ladylike demeanor. It would all be for the better: Mme Giry had been quite the fiery girl herself, and she had been thoughtless too often for a lifetime. She wouldn’t let Meg do the same mistakes she had done.

Meg’s innocent chatter was suddenly interrupted by a knock at the door. Madame Giry got up, frowning, especially that at such an hour, most of the ballerinas and staff were out, to return at a very late hour of the night, or at their homes, if they didn’t reside at the Opera Populaire. Her confusion only increased when she saw a police officer standing there.

“May I know your inquiry, monsieur?” she asked sternly. “I suppose a dancer got in trouble and that she requires some assistance?”

“I am not allowed to say more, madame,” he answered. “I will simply ask you and your daughter to follow me. I suppose it’s the… brunette one, right here?”

Christine’s panicked gaze didn’t help to clear the confusion, as she clung Meg’s hand desperately. While Meg was glancing with curiosity to the police officer, then to her mother, Madame Giry was the only one who kept some sort of composure.

“What does my daughter have to do with this, monsieur, if this business concerns me and only me? I can assure to you she has done nothing wrong. Unless you’re saying I’m not keeping her well and that she is a loose girl behind my back?”

“I can assure to you it is not the case, madame,” the police officer replied, but his annoyance became obvious. “I simply follow orders, and I am not allowed to give you any kind of reason. I do not want to call for reinforcements, so I will simply again that you and your daughter follow me.”

Madame Giry finally turned towards Meg, who had to force herself out of Christine’s grasp, but not without muttering a word of reassurance to her friend. Christine nodded, but the trembling in her hands was still very present.

Their heads high, the Girys followed the officer through the corridors and out of the Opera house. But as both of them were about to climb in the carriage waiting for them in front of the building, they suddenly felt an arm circling their throat and, before they even had time to react, a cloth was pressed to their mouths.

It didn’t take long for them to faint despite their desperate attempt to stay conscious.

* * *

Meg finally woke up, caught in a pitch black darkness, sitting uncomfortably, shaking with the carriage’s rolling towards an unknown destination and feeling the presence of two people on each of her sides. In a strike of panic, she lifted her arms in order to try and grasp something around her to convince her that she was in the real world… to suddenly realize that she was handcuffed.

She heard throaty laughs all around her, and as her panic rose, her eyes finally settled to the darkness. She saw foreign-looking men all around her, no trace of the police officer who had ordered both her mother and herself to follow him, probably a few hours ago, certainly, and among them, her mother, still in a state of unconsciousness. It was only Madame Giry’s regular breathing that convinced Meg that her mother was still alive, and reassured her, though, of course, not completely.

One of the foreigners, dressed in a more occidental matter, gave a curt nod to Meg, but which stung to her as a cruel mockery, and took away any sort of hope she could have formed by a familiar element as insignificant as clothing. She turned around, closing her eyes, trying to repeat to herself that this was just a dream and that she would wake up to see Christine in the bed just beside her, but provoking only even more laughs. She retained a sob, to open her eyes and get painfully used to the realization that she was in solid, harsh reality.

Her mother had finally awoken, blinking quite a bit before looking around her, puzzled, and her eyes finally settling on each of the men surrounding her and to stop on Meg. The young girl saw her mother’s lower lip quiver slightly. A shiver ran up her spine. Maman never quivered for _anything_. This could only mean no good.

“You have quite a lovely daughter, _Madame Giry_ ,” the man in occidental clothing finally said, insisting with arrogant irony on Giry’s name. “I would have had trouble seeing you as a mother… but here it is.”

“How dare you speak this way!” Madame Giry finally shouted, having fully regained her composure. “I am a respectable woman, monsieur, who’s been the ballet mistress at the Opera Populaire for more than fifteen years, and I want to know the meaning of this!”

“It is useless to keep on lying, though I know you’re a master in the subject,” the man continued. “Aren’t you… Anouar?”

Meg frowned at her mother, her mouth slightly opened in disbelief, hoping to see her straighten up as she always did and call the man a liar.

But the quivering of her mother’s lip had come back, more present than before. She ignored that that simple name had made a small crack in Antoinette Giry’s shell, built throughout the years, filling her with a frightful coldness which ripped off from her any kind of stoic confidence she would have had within her.

After all, the last person to have called her Anouar was no other than her late husband.


	2. Chapter 2

Meg tried as much as possible to forget about the waves lifting the boat up and down. She hoped that that way, maybe the sea sickness would disappear. However, it was no use. She resembled any sort of self-control she had to be able not to throw up, wondering for a moment how she could be able of doing so since she hadn’t eaten much in the last few days. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been given very little food – on the contrary. Meg just wasn’t hungry, and she couldn’t understand why she was so well fed since she was just as much a prisoner as her mother, who, on the other hand, barely got anything.

It was only today (or tonight? There was no notion of time, in this part of the boat, since there were no windows) that Meg had found herself alone with her mother. She only knew to this point how the men called her mother – Anouar. Meg was led to the painful admittance that Anouar and Antoinette were two names that happened to be rather similar to each other, and that it was probably the reason why her mother chose the latter when she had to create herself a new identity. Of course, the men kept on speaking to her mother: but it was in a foreign language Meg couldn’t understand a word of, much to her frustration, which became even worse as she realized her mother understood everything, even though she never replied.

They would slap her, from time to time. It was as if Madame Giry always saw it coming, and the first times, she would stare pleadingly at her daughter, in her own silent way to beg her to turn away. Meg obeyed. For some reason, she found that the look in her mother’s eyes, at that moment, looked a lot like Caesar’s, who had been one of the horses’ that were used at the Opera for some grand productions. Meg was barely thirteen when he was declared to be of no good use anymore. Last time, he hadn’t broken any of the sets: La Carlotta had almost got kicked by him in the head and had therefore ordered that Caesar was to be either sold or taken down. The latter happened, of course: and even though Meg knew that La Carlotta had almost died (well, not that she actually liked the diva, but it wasn’t as if she wished her harm), the event had marked her to a point she had been unable, for the first time of her life, to attend her daily practice. Her mother hadn’t grounded her. She had pointed her towards her bed, summoning her to stay there, while Meg could finally cry out all the tears in her body.  Just before practice, Madame Giry had given her without a word that copy of _Le Prométhée moderne_ Meg had read again and again before having to give it back to Monsieur Reyer, since it was his book. When Giry had come back, she had made Meg’s favorite soup. It was all at the same a cherished memory as much as a painful one: it reminded Meg that her mother loved her more than anything else in the world.

In the end, Meg was forced to watch her mother being mistreated. It hadn’t been long before they saw she turned her head away.

They had been on that boat for a while. The Girys hadn’t seen the men anymore, except when they came to give them their meals.

Between the two of them, there had been an awkward silence, that Meg couldn’t stand anymore.

There were now so many things she knew and so many things which opened questions left unanswered. At first, Meg had respected that almost religious silence her mother had imposed. She was almost afraid that if she spoke, perhaps her mother would break down. The mere thought of it was terrifying for Meg. That quivering lip, and that look she had seen once on a condemned horse’s face, and the quiet acceptance her mother had had throughout all her mistreatment had been already too much.

“Maman?”

No answer.

“M’man…”

“M’man?”

The last “M’man” to come out of Meg’s mouth sounded so plaintive, like a hungry kitten looking for its mother. It was only then that Meg saw her mother’s silhouette moving in the shadows.

“Yes, Meg?”

Meg swallowed and took a deep breath before finally speaking. “Maman… what is the meaning of… everything? Why do you… where…”

It was hard not to plainly ask: _who are you?_

She heard her mother sigh deeply in the dark. Meg feared for a while her reaction, already telling herself that this was all a very bad idea, and that she should have stayed quiet, as she always should…

“I think it would be better if I told you everything instead of having someone else telling you, and not telling you the truth at the same time.”

Madame Giry suddenly stopped, as she realized what she had said. Did Meg trust her entirely, to this point? Was she furious because of how her mother had lied to  her all her life? Well, lying was probably too harsh as a term, here. Mme Giry never talked about the past to Meg. She remembered all those times where her daughter would tug at her skirts, when she was that little girl asking questions about absolutely everything and nothing to everyone she met, and she would ask her about her father. It was easy for Mme Giry to shoo Meg away then, with a “Not now Meg” or “I’m busy Meg”. Now, her daughter was almost an adult – well, she was nineteen, and therefore considered an adult by many, but to Mme Giry, she was still a child on so many levels. And now…

But when she finally dared to look at Meg, she only saw curiosity and a somewhat encouraging smile. There was no trace of resentment. Mme Giry mentally sighed of relief. Meg’s scorn was something she never wanted to face. Well, now that she thought about it, it was probably that one thing that would destroy her entirely. Who would believe such a frail little young lady could be the end of her? Perhaps those were the strange wonders of being a mother.

Madame Giry didn’t even know where to start. Those moments from her youth, which she had tried to forget about and bury throughout the years for her own safety, were now coming back at an alarming rate, in such a way she was somewhat unable to organize them chronologically. At that moment, all she could do was to ask: “What do you want to know, Meg?”

“Well, everything!” she blurted out. She cleared her throat while attempting to  start curling a strand of her hair around her finger, as she usually did when she was nervous, before remembering she was handcuffed.

“Well… tell me about Papa. How did you meet him?”

Meg was able to see Mme Giry smiling fondly in the dark. For a moment, she even thought, for the first time of her life, that her mother was beautiful, when her traits were soft. To be honest, she had never seen her mother that way. Maman was Maman, with her furrowed brows, her tight mouth, but the way her hand would pat her head from time to time were those reminders that she was Maman, and that she could always run to her whenever something was wrong, and that somehow, Maman always found the right words to reassure her no matter what. Right now, when she looked at her mother, Meg found that she looked like that sculpture of the Greek goddess Athena she had seen once at Versailles – or was it Marly? Fontainebleau? She couldn’t remember.  She was only eight years old when Madame Giry had decided that as a sort of special treat, they were going to visit one of those former royal garden created during Louis XIV’s reign. All Meg could remember was that statue of the goddess, and how impressed she was of her bold femininity as she stood, high and intimidating with her helmet and her spear.

“I met your father when I was still in Persia…”

* * *

_To start with Jules Giry, or rather Julien de Veuster, was a good way to get to everything. Or at least what was important._

_He was part of an embassy sent from Belgium to Persia. He came from a family of diplomats and had been of course destined to become an ambassador himself. Anouar had been a spy for quite a few years, now._

_She had wanted to help her brother in his work, finding it far more interesting that what other girls of her age were supposed to be interested in. Nadir, as boring or rather reasonable as usual, had refused. She had found her own way of getting away with it. She had been caught poking her nose in something that was absolutely none of her business, and she had two choices: dying, or serving the Persian empire as a spy, while her dancing would be her cover. She had of course chosen the latter._

_Her younger self was no saint. But she was still innocent, in a way. She had never believed that she could one day be an accomplice in murdering political enemies. When she had come to realize fully what she had done and what she was doing, when she had turned to her brother, teary-eyed for the first time in years, he had simply shrugged and told her that now, she had to pay the consequences of her naivety._

_And so Anouar hardened herself, but her conscience was somehow stronger than anything, reminding her of what was right and what was wrong, showing more fortitude than most. And it clashed with her duties, but toughening her rather than destroying her._

_Julien was just as curious as she had been, once. Her dancing had entranced him like it had entranced so many other men, but he had been foolish enough to follow her an evening just to get to speak to her. He had caught her in the middle of a mission, and it had taken all of Anouar’s quickest reflexes and instincts so both of them could get out of that situation unhurt._

_He had been such a fool Anouar soon found herself quite interested in him._

_And so they met each other again, always in secret._

_Today, Anouar could only recall herself of snippets of their secret meetings. Insignificant, silly details, like how he would grab and toy with a strand of her hair while speaking of something important she was quite ashamed to admit she couldn’t remember anymore, or like how he had that little dimple on his right cheek which only appeared when he had succeeded in making her laugh. She even had trouble remembering his face, even though she usually had a knack in remembering all the others’._

_The Belgian embassy was to leave soon._

_And Anouar was forced to come to the realization that she loved Julien. And to his contact, she also knew that she couldn’t live that life anymore._

_They had planned to run away together. They would have to hide, since Anouar knew too much to go out of Persia without the government knowing about her whereabouts. She didn’t even tell Nadir, knowing that she had caused him already enough trouble, not to say even pain._

_She couldn’t quite remember how running away was like. It only came in blurs of tenderness mixed to the constant fear of being caught, and in the meantime, they had made it to Europe. Julien de Veuster had changed his name for Jules Giry, borrowing his maternal grandmother’s family name, while Anouar became Antoinette. They had finally installed themselves in Paris, Jules managing to find work as a librarian, since he had always loved books, and Antoinette also helping by finding a job as a ballet mistress in a dance school for young girls, preparing them to join the infamous Paris ballet company._

_Meg knew the rest. Madame Antoinette Giry had become renowned enough to make her way to the Paris Opera. Jules Giry had died like he had lived, while pushing an old lady from a runaway cart. To this day, Anouar didn’t know if she should cry or cynically laugh about how it had happened._

_She had, of course, said nothing about Erik._

_Anouar even preferred not even thinking about him._

_Even if she had to admit that during all those years, in her mind, he hadn’t stopped haunt her._

* * *

When Mme Giry finally finished her story, she lifted up her eyes, which had kept on staring at her hands during all of it. In an even tone, as she tried to hide the emotion that was coming up as much as she could, she asked: 

“Anything else, Meg?”

Silence ensued. But finally, a tiny voice made itself heard.

“No, maman.” Meg paused and took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Quietness installed itself again, though not as heavy as it was before. Meg stared for a while at her meal, which she of course hadn’t touched. She frowned, lost in her thoughts, trying to imagine how her father looked like. For sure, he was probably blonde, since she was blonde herself and…

The door opened loudly, while a man came in with the Girys’ next meal. He saw Meg’s untouched bowl, yelled something at her which she thankfully didn’t understand, while going away with dinner and leaving her supper.

There was nothing for her mother.

For a minute, Meg stared blankly at her meal. Then, she slowly turned her head towards her mother.

“Maman… why am I so well fed?”

Meg could see her mother’s chin tremble.

“I don’t know.”

Meg knew her mother was lying.

And this certainly meant no good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know I’ve been pretty quick on the Girys’ past and all, but you know, if enough people are interested, no guarantee, but maybe one day I’ll write a spinoff about it if I get enough inspiration? Who knows? 
> 
> And… of course, I think you’re all waiting for that, but we’ll get to see Erik in the next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

When they arrived, despite the ominous dread, she couldn’t help but look around her in amazement.

It was hard for her not to reminisce all the tales she had read as a youngster. It was more grand and more terrible than anything she had ever imagined. In her dreams, she had seen mountains of sand, but, Meg being the eternal optimist, there was always a little oasis in the middle of them. Here, there was dust. No golden sand. Just dust. Well, probably it was sand, but in her eyes, it was dust. And rocks. Lots of rocks.

The city wasn’t much better, at least at first. Their horses ran through the crowds, regardless of the mess they caused around them. But Meg was too busy doing her best to avoid any contact with the horse rider behind her and keeping a certain balance while being handcuffed (which was quite the exploit) to pay attention to her surroundings, as she would have eagerly done in another setting. However, they came to a lower pace as they went through an enormous portal and that the landscape at last improved.

Meg finally saw the palace in front of her, and couldn’t help but sigh in amazement. For a moment, she believed perhaps that it wouldn’t be so bad, since fairy tales always ended well and since she was the heroine, either she would wake up from this bad dream in her bed at the Opera house, either perhaps her father would come, having survived for some mysterious reason, and save both her and her mother. Or maybe a prince. Meg felt her ears heating in embarrassment for that last thought.

They entered a garden, full of plants, flowers and trees Meg had never seen in her entire life. As she got helped off the horse, she couldn’t help but turn around to have a better look at everything, before one of the men grabbed her by the collar, and, as she was brought back on Earth rather brutally, she begrudgingly lowered her head and stayed still. She lifted it for a split second, trying to meet her mother’s gaze, but Madame Giry was obstinately keeping her head low and her lips tight.

They had finally arrived to destination, and now, she had no idea what was going to happen to both of them. Obviously, her mother probably had a clue. But she had always refused to tell Meg anything about it.

She saw a group of women running towards them, all dressed in the same way. And soon, while speaking all at once, they separated her from her mother and the escort to bring her somewhere else. For a moment, Meg panicked while being drawn away, breaking free of the grip of the women who looked to be the eldest, swirling around.

“Maman!”

Madame Giry lifted her head. She smiled.

Meg held back a sob, and thought for a moment she was going to choke. It was only the women dragging her away which forbade her from collapsing on the ground crying.

After all, it was only now that she realized that perhaps she wouldn’t see her mother again.

It was unreal, for Meg. Wherever she would be brought to, she couldn’t imagine Maman not managing to escape her captors, not finding her daughter, not hugging her tightly and bringing her back home. Now, Marguerite Marie Jeanne Giry felt so very small and helpless, and the thought that she had no one now to rely on was truly the most terrifying thing she had ever experienced.

She could barely recognize herself. Meg was always the one Christine had turned towards whenever she felt the littlest insecurity. The girls in the ballet chorus also did that, depending on the moment, and more or less secretly, since, after all, she _was_ Madame Giry’s daughter. Simone had also done that once, quite surprisingly. Meg had been convinced until that day that the soloist dancer hated her, but apparently, not too much. The next day, Simone had come back to her old, unpleasant behavior, but Meg didn’t see her in the same light anymore.

The women had brought Meg to a room where she saw a bronze tub filled with water waiting for her. A bath. It wasn’t that unwelcomed, considering she hadn’t had a bath for weeks and that she felt terribly filthy. But the oddness of her situation since the beginning only laboured her even more. The meals, the lack of any physical abuse, and now the bath…

As the women started stripping her from her dirty dress, she couldn’t help but let go a little cry. She stared at them for a moment, and finished taking off her clothes, until she had nothing else but her undergarments. As she saw the oldest woman crossing her arms, Meg understood she had to take them off too.

She turned her back to the servants, taking off the rest of her clothing and jumping in the bath as quickly as she could, curling up in the best attempt to keep a sort of decency, enjoying the water’s soothing warmth.

But it was useless, since quickly, the women were all on her, scrubbing her body and her hair, covering her in perfumes that made her feel dizzy to the point she partly forgot her humiliation.

She finally got out, and instead of her clothing, which was anyway ragged, she was handed new ones. She couldn’t help but smile a bit as she saw the beautiful sky blue color, but as soon as it was put on her, she was shocked as she saw that those clothes covered less of her body than her undergarments. Oh, for sure, some costumes she wore back at the Opera house could be revealing at times, but never had she worn something that didn’t cover her stomach!

She saw the women around her do a quick bow, and she lifted her head to see that a man had entered the room. She blushed and tried to cover her stomach with her arms, and also curtsied, her ballet moves making her open her arms and show her stomach, before she swiftly interrupted her bow to cover it again. As she paid closer attention to the man’s face, she couldn’t help but find a resemblance with her mother’s, in his long face, and his eyes’ color and shape. For the first time since what seemed to Meg to be forever, a reassured smile appeared on her features.

“You are Maman’s brother, aren’t you?” Meg asked, hoping that maybe, he would understand her language. “She told me about you. I’m Meg.”

She was so glad to see her uncle smile, and a little more, she would have flung in his arms. “Indeed I am,” he replied, with not a hint of foreign accent. “I am happy to meet you.”

“Is Maman alright?” Meg asked anxiously. “Have you seen her?”

A slight tension appeared on Nadir’s face, which however remained poised and controlled, in a way it made him look even more similar to his sister. “I haven’t see her yet. Actually… I’m here to bring you to the shah. The… king of this realm, if you prefer.”

“Oh.” Meg bit her lips, looking at her feet, before finally assembling her courage and asking: “Uncle Nadir? I mean… can I call you like that? And… what is going to become of me? What is the meaning of all… this?” she added, pointing to the bronze tub and her clothes.

Meg saw Nadir’s unease only become more obvious. He cleared his throat. “The shah wishes to see you… before you get married.”

Meg’s face paled, then reddened, to pale again, while her ears buzzed infernally.

“I… in… who… WHAT?” Meg finally managed to blurt.

Nadir sighed, before finally gathering his courage to speak again and tell everything. “When your mother escaped with your father, I was in charge of finding her, along with another man. We failed, and since then, our position at court is more… let’s say, fragile. Said man once refused a very valuable gift from the Shah – a wife. Now, you are to become his bride. And he cannot refuse this time.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Meg shouted, as the women drew away from her and exchanged almost panicked glances, taken aback by her bold attitude. “Doesn’t he have his say in this?”

Nadir let out a sad chuckle, as he observed his niece more attentively, while looking as if he was haunted by some faraway memory. “In this land, when the Shah has spoken, no one can do anything. All you can do is obey.”

A heavy silence installed itself. Meg closed her eyes tightly and bit her lip, while Nadir observed her attentively, fearing that a frail girl as herself, after everything she had been through, would finally break down this time and arrive in a poor state in front of the shah and her future husband.

He studied her for a while, trying to find any kind of resemblance with Anouar. It was hard to see. The eyes’ shape and grey color was the same, but for the rest… everything, most especially her honey blonde hair, was oh-so European. Nadir even wondered for a while how Anouar had given birth to such a girl.

But he saw Meg opening her eyes. And for the first time in years, a lump formed itself in Nadir Khan’s throat as he recognized in his niece’s glance the same determined light he would see in his sister’s eyes in the best memories he had of her.

“So who am I to be married to?” she asked, in a clipped tone.

Nadir swallowed. “Has your mother talked to you about Erik?”

Meg glanced at him curiously. “No. Who is he?”

Nadir coughed, as he carefully chose his words. “He is a friend of mine. And your mother’s friend as well. We… helped him, a long time ago, when he was very young. Actually… I think he’s the closest friend I have here.”

“Oh.” Nadir saw Meg smile shyly, somewhat reassured, and his heart tightened.

“But… Meg, you have to be aware… Erik… he’s not like everyone else.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, innocently. Surely, Nadir thought with grief, she thinks whoever is friends with her mother and her uncle is certainly an irreproachable person…

But he was unable to continue, for guards had arrived in the room, and announced that the young girl was to presented to the Shah to be given to her master and husband.

Nadir was thankful that Meg couldn’t understand a word of what they had said. 

* * *

 

Meg simply imitated her uncle as they entered the throne room, and deeply bowed in front of the Shah. Instinctively, she knew that glancing up at him wasn’t a good idea and would probably be a sign of disrespect. But her curiosity, as usual, took over, and in a fraction of a second, she managed to see a man in his late thirties, and that he was studying her from head to toe. Meg bit her lip as unease settled in her. Behind the throne, a curtain was drawn. But it was diaphanous enough for her to see a silhouette behind it, though not enough to see who it was. Judging by the mannerisms, Meg concluded that it was a woman, most certainly. And she even had to retain an impulsive motion to get up and go and see for herself, scolding herself for even thinking of it.

As she glanced to the right side of the room, she saw her mother, tied up and still in a poor state, and looking at the ground intently. This time, she followed her reflexes and would have ran into her mother’s arms if it hadn’t been for Nadir grabbing her arm so quickly no one except the Shah noticed. He smirked.

“You have a beautiful daughter, Anouar,” the Shah finally said in French. “Quite beautiful… I would have kept her for myself.”

Meg heard an almost imperceptible groan coming from her mother, and was able to see a guard hold her from the arm as she made a motion towards the Shah. But his smile only became wider.

“It’s almost a shame I’m giving her to the Living Corpse.”

_The what?_ Meg asked herself. Her imagination was now working at full speed, as she was unsure if the Shah was making some sort of twisted joke or if he was speaking the truth… Well, heavens, there was no such things as living corpses! And as much as Meg loved those kind of morbid tales, it wasn’t to the point she was actually going to gobble such a thing…

She saw Nadir look quickly on his side, visibly worried of her reaction. She then recalled his words earlier – that Erik wasn’t like anyone else. Well, certainly, it just couldn’t be…

“Shall we bring him in, then? I’m sure he’ll be more than eager to see he has a bride that will most certainly suit him,” continued the Shah.

Meg turned her head to the left like everyone else, as she saw a black silhouette – a man, rather – entering the throne room.

She had had trouble making the difference between man and shadow, for he was the strangest person she had ever seen.

He was dressed entirely in black, in a strange mix of Occidental and Oriental fashion, and with a cape trailing behind him. She remarked how thin he was and how he seemed to float in his clothes, and how skeletal his gloved hands were, with fingers so long they almost seemed inhuman. His long hair was carefully slicked back and tied at the nape. All little details Meg tried to pay more attention to, since what immediately caught her attention was the white mask he was wearing, covering everything except his mouth and chin, and of course, his eyes. Two golden eyes who were sometimes staring at her, sometimes staring boldly at the Shah, and which reminded her of a cat’s more than anything else. No, rather that panther she had seen at the Champs-Élysées, once.

Erik seemed more feline than human, after all.

And she had to resemble all her courage not to tremble as she saw the obvious fury on Erik’s masked face and the tensing in his body, while seeing the Shah triumphantly smirk as he designated Meg.

For a moment, she even thought he was going to jump on her, all claws up, and tear her to pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went on Rumpelstiltskin mode. I said Erik was going to show up in this chapter. I didn’t say for how long and how much, though. *cackles*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I skipped a week, I know, since I’ve been quite busy lately. But to compensate for it, here’s a chapter which happens to be a bit longer than usual. As always, comments are appreciated.

Nadir tried his best to reassure himself with the fact that despite Erik often having angry outbursts, he had always been able to gain enough self-control not to do so in front of the Shah himself. When it came to other dignitaries, no matter what status they had at court, Erik seemed as if he couldn’t care less and that their social rank was nothing – not to mention that there was even a more or less obvious sentiment of superiority.

The khanum had even faced a few of his… temper tantrums. But she knew how to canalize them into something else.

In a split second, he started moving towards Meg, in an attempt to shield her and show Erik this time, he would have none of it. The success of such a gesture on Erik’s temper was, however… rather dubious.

But what stopped him was Meg slowly turning towards Erik, lifting up her head, looking at him in the eye, even straightening up and squaring her shoulders a bit.

Meg was still afraid. She could feel her legs shaking, as she instinctively stuck them together in a way of feeling more stable. It was certainly easy to understand why Erik wasn’t too… happy about all this. It was even obvious that until now, he knew nothing about it. But something within her stirred and gave her courage. It came from her fright, and, like a little soldier, she charged, by straightening up with dignity like the ballerina she was.

She had no idea where her newfound strength came from. She had to admit it had somewhat always been that way, perhaps thanks to her mother’s example – in front of an adversary, she never cowered. Of course, she had that habit of screaming easily. But she never let her fear get the better of her, and she would always be the first one to find a solution, such as using a broom to get a rat out of the dormitory.

But here, she had nothing but her courage. And so, she even dared making a few steps towards Erik, still looking at him in the eye.

The fury was gone, and had given place to a sort of contemptuous interest. With his arms crossed and his mouth twisted in a utterly humorless smirk, Meg could almost imagine one of his eyebrows rise under the mask. When she arrived near him, her courage faded as she was painfully reminded of how tiny she was. It was already a pain when she was in the ballet chorus, along with her curves which, without making her chubby, were more prominent than with the other tall, willowy dancers and had always given her trouble in auditions for solo roles.

In this case, Erik was so tall Meg could barely reach his shoulder.

She starred at him, with those big grey eyes of hers, with something that Erik read as curiosity. There was still a flicker of nervousness, here and there, but he couldn’t see a sign of her wanting to run away as fast as she could. 

His stiffness diminished, as his contempt changed into a sort of quizzical shock, which only the Shah’s voice was able to break, after he had lowered his head back toward the curtain and that the female silhouette had whispered something to him.

“Your bride may want to know you better, Angel of Doom. My mother has suggested you might want to take off your mask. You should have known that coming in with your face covered is quite an impolite thing to do, isn’t it?”

Meg couldn’t help but compare the Shah’s words to poisoned honey, and, as she saw Erik tense again, she quickly turned her head towards her mother and her uncle, as if she was trying to ask them what to do. Of course, an unmasking could only mean no good, and this was probably all some sort of twisted game or test just to see how she would react.

“I never said I actually agreed to this arrangement,” Erik finally said.

As she heard his voice for the first time, Meg shivered. It was melodious, and despite the evident anger in it, it sounded like a song to her. A beautiful one. It would curl around her like a snake trying to charm her and had a somehow commanding propriety, the kind that would make you kneel and submit to its every will if you were less spirited. It  reminded her of the voice of angels as they were described in old tales told to children. But if you paid closer attention, the darkness, splendid yet somehow daunting, unfurled itself in all its splendor.

She retained herself from chuckling, mocking herself for being stunned for nothing more than a speaking voice.

“I thought you’d be more reasonable this time,” the Shah replied. “The last time I gave you such a gift, you were ungrateful enough to turn her away. You know how it ended for her, hmm? You wouldn’t turn away the daughter of an old friend for her to have such a fate…”

The Shah pointed towards Anouar, and it seemed as if Erik finally noticed her for the first time. Meg could see his eyes widen and his chin slightly trembling by shock. He then glanced back at Meg, studying her face, as if he was trying to find any kind of resemblance she would have with her mother. Apart from the eyes’ color and shape, he didn’t find any, and he couldn’t help but turn away in disdain.

“Everything will be quite simple,” the Shah said. “I need you for my palace and for other tasks I know only you can accomplish. But you are definitely under suspicion now for being accomplice to Anouar Khan’s escape. She is to be a hostage, and shall be imprisoned: if you refuse to marry her daughter, they both die… or I might just keep the daughter for myself, as she is rather good-looking.”

Anouar made a gesture as if she tried to lunge forward, only to be held back by the guards surrounding her.

“Things could be… simpler, Your Majesty,” Erik deadpanned.

“Well, it is rather amusing to see an old bachelor such as yourself finally settling down, isn’t it?” the Shah replied, smiling. “And I can’t refuse giving such a small pleasure to my mother. She does care a lot about your welfare. But enough of this… what did I ask for again? Ah yes. Take off your mask.”

Erik clenched his fists, clearly retaining himself from lunging towards the Shah. Meg started trembling again, and turned towards her mother and her uncle. She saw both Nadir and Anouar starring at her almost pleadingly. Her mother even managed to gesture with her lips:

“Don’t scream.”

Meg swallowed, and turned back towards Erik, still looking at him in the eye. His anger, in the meanwhile, had only increased.

“Well?” the Shah asked.

Meg heard Erik yell something loudly in Persian, guessing it was probably some curse, and shout loudly towards the female silhouette behind the curtain. The woman didn’t move an inch, as if she was waiting for something, and the Shah only smiled and gave Erik a mocking nod of the head, but his tight smile clearly showed that he was growing impatient.

His mouth clenched tightly, Erik ripped off his mask in a rage.

He had to retain himself for not gloating while seeing Meg pale, while she clenched the tails of her clothing to the point her hands’ joints were white and her legs and lower lip shook, her eyes open wide in horror. Not a single sound came out of her throat, as she repeated the same mantra in her mind.

_Don’t scream._

_Don’t scream._

_Just don’t scream._

To be perfectly honest, it was hard not to.

_He had no nose._

Meg still had trouble wrapping her mind around that fact. All she saw at its usual place were two gaping nostrils. His skin was yellowish at some parts, reddish at others, with a strange shade of grey being the dominant color, except around the eyes, where it turned in shades of dark brown. She wondered, for a while, if his lips were very thin or if he had any, for she couldn’t see them: well, he certainly had something like that, since he wouldn’t be able to talk… His cheeks and eyes were so unnaturally sunken he… his head looked like a skull.

She understood now what they meant by calling him the Living Corpse.

“Repulsive, isn’t he?” the Shah said. Meg turned quickly towards him, startled by the sympathy in his tone, which stung even more as she felt all the insincerity in it.

A gloat, similar to a hyena’s cry, rang in all of the room. Meg trembled as she could clearly see that the laugh obviously came from Erik, but it seemed to come from different places all at the same time. 

When he finally stopped, Meg had decided to focus her gaze on her feet.

“Well?” the Shah insisted. “I am waiting for your answer.”

Meg came out of her troubled reverie. She glanced at the Shah, then at Erik, at the Shah again, and once again at Erik. She contemplated his face, and Erik was unable to decipher her face. He awaited her answer with some sort of anxiety, his cynicism already seeing her eagerly agreeing with the Shah, while he would announced that she wouldn’t escape her terrible fate anyway. Cue the tears.

But Erik saw her swallowing, and he was surprised  to see a determined glint in her face.

“No.”

Heavy silence installed itself in the room. And of course, for the first time in what seemed like forever, Erik, the feared Angel of Doom, was at a loss for words.

“What do you mean, no?” the Shah finally managed to ask.

She slowly turned to him, and a very small, contrived smile appeared.

“If he is my husband, I owe him respect. And I have no right of speaking of him that way.”

Erik’s arms fell on each side of him, and he was just conscious enough to keep his mouth shut. His eyes drifted to the Shah, than to Meg, who had lowered her head in an attempt to look as less impertinent as possible. He could see Anouar and Nadir looking at each other, unsure if they had to be amazed, or horrified and worried.

Meg finally glanced at Erik, and saw his chin trembling, and in his eyes, a glimmer of what looked like some sort of misunderstanding but also, gratitude.

A snap of fingers suddenly distracted them. It came from the Shah, and he was quite visibly unpleased that the little spectacle he had wanted to set hadn’t turned out like expected. It was time to get to the next act.

“Well, as you can see, your bride-to-be is all ready for this evening. Perhaps now you want to take her home in order to… make a better acquaintance? I don’t see what would be wrong with having your wedding night before your wedding… which will be public, of course.”

Meg’s brain snapped, while her mother, once again, lunged, only to be held back once again. The allusion was just too obvious to be misunderstood.

Well, if she was to be married, it was… rather to be expected. But that it was to be tonight, and with a man she barely knew…

“Fine,” Erik snapped. “In that case, if you don’t mind, we’ll leave immediately.”

Meg panicked, looking towards Nadir, hoping he would be able to do something to help her get out of this. She tried being reassured by the fact there was something definitely reassuring in his features. Perhaps Erik wouldn’t do anything to her… but she still wasn’t sure if she could count on it.

“The… agreement still stands,” the Shah said. “You are not to repudiate her, or help her mother or herself escape. Your life will be in danger if you do so… and so will be the Daroga. Well, I don’t think he’ll be Daroga for very long, with all this…”

Nadir lowered his head in painful resignation, while all Erik could do was to put his mask back on and then bowing, but in a way it was so subtly impertinent it almost seemed like an insult. The Shah, however, didn’t seem to notice or ignored his insolence, and had both Erik and Meg dismissed and escorted by some guards out of the throne room. The loud bang made by the doors closing made Meg jump and squeal a bit, while Erik rolled his eyes, and it was only then that she realized that now, she was all on her own.

“Come on,” Erik said abruptly. “Let’s go to my home.”

Meg nodded, swallowed, and followed Erik obediently, but not without looking around for a way to escape. She then realized how foolish it would be to do so – she had nowhere to go, no place to hide, and she could put her mother’s life in peril if she did so. She understood now that her mother’s life was probably relying on her and Erik: if she made the smallest mistake, Maman would pay it with her life.  

Erik lived just beside the palace, and his house integrated itself perfectly with the rest of the surroundings. The only difference is that there didn’t seem to be any windows. Meg shivered, imagining how dark it was inside, and for some reason, the black door did nothing to reassure her… and her fears she had had earlier only came back even stronger and gripped her at her throat.

As they arrived, Erik opened the door and gallantly gestured her to go in first.

“After you,” he said, his tone as undecipherable as his face under the mask was.

Meg looked wildly at Erik, than at the entrance, so dark she couldn’t see the interior. She felt her whole body shake convulsively, and it was only then that she finally broke down, after trying to stay as stoic as possible during all those weeks where she had to stay strong, stay strong for Maman, since for the very first time in her life, she had to be strong for two.

She fell on the ground, rolling herself in a ball, while choked sobs came out, so intense she almost had trouble catching her breath.

She didn’t know for how long she stayed that way, completely forgetting about her surroundings and Erik until she felt a hand patting her shoulder. Startled, she look up, to see that Erik had sat just beside her, his mouth twisted, while he was awkwardly trying to comfort her. He obviously wasn’t used to do that kind of thing.

Meg sat straight, wiped away her tears, took a deep breath and finally managed to mutter: “I’m sorry, I…”

“Don’t be,” Erik interrupted her. “You have every reason to be… sad.” He had hesitated on the last word. “Sad” was quite the euphemism to describe the state Meg had been in.

“It’s just… I guess everything happened so fast. Anyway, I am really sorry, and I have to help my mother, so…” She resembled her courage. “So I guess we can go in, get ready for the night, and we…” She was unable to finish.

“What?” Meg was startled. She turned towards Erik, as she saw in his eyes genuine confusion, which shifted to irritation. “Did you seriously think I was going to take advantage of you like… _that_?” He seemed so sincerely disgusted Meg couldn’t help but feel ashamed. But all her pain from the last weeks culminated, and all she was able to do was to grab the folds of her clothing, her face reddening while her face turned Erik, as she stared at him with all the anger she was capable of.

And it was at that moment that Erik was able to see the resemblance between mother and daughter, and he couldn’t help but be a bit… terrified.

“Well why wouldn’t I?” she shouted. “You don’t know about everything I’ve been through! For God’s sake, _I barely know you!_ Maman didn’t even speak of you once! Well, sure, Uncle Nadir does seem to like you, but… I don’t know what to think, or what to do, and…” she breathed heavily, as she didn’t even find the energy to even continue shouting. She was exhausted. It smacked her like a brick, now.

Erik was now looking at her, solemnly, his golden eyes almost glowing. Meg felt her anger slowly drift away, but she still remained defensive.

“I will not touch you,” he said, insisting on every word, as if he was making a promise. “I never will, except if you permit me to do so.” He chuckled. “I doubt that will ever happen, though. I am intent on… caring for you, since I guess I have the duty of caring for you, since your mother isn’t here.”

“I can care for myself,” Meg replied with a hint of annoyance.

“I’m sure you can,” Erik said, and Meg was surprised that he was actually sincere. “But in such a deadly land, you won’t be able to do so on your own. Let’s just say you’ll need a little… help. And right now… I think you need some rest in a proper bed.”

Erik got up, and bowed down, presenting his hand to Meg in order to help her get up. But, probably in an attempt to show how much of an independent young lady she was, Meg got up on her own, and was attentive enough to see a glint of amusement in Erik’s eyes. She saw him taking a torch that was hung just beside the door outside, entering his home, and using to light the hall. Meg finally dared to enter, only to see that another door was separating the hall from some mystery room.

When Erik opened the door, Meg could only gasp in amazement.

The palace had been grand and rich, but full of dread, but here… Meg’s fantasies came true in front of her very eyes.

There were candles everywhere, providing a soft lighting. The room where they had entered was a sort of parlor, with a piano being somehow the room’s centerpiece. Instead of the divans and chairs Meg was used to see, she saw cushions instead, and at some of them had little tables beside them. One of them even had an unfinished chess game, which somehow gave her a sense of reassurance, as she remembered how Monsieur Reyer had taught her how to play.

And of course, a hundred questions came to her.

“Why do you have so many candles?”

“I happen not to be fortunate enough to see in the dark.”

“Then why aren’t there any windows?”

“It could get hot here if there were some. This place is built to stay at a stable temperature at all times.”

“And do you play the piano?”

Erik suddenly looked somewhat offended. “If you think I have an instrument as some sort of vulgar decoration…”

“Well, no… I mean… it’s lovely! I never thought you would since you’re, well, an architect…”

“I am many things, you know,” Erik replied darkly. This only whipped up Meg’s curiosity even more, but for once, she managed to hold her tongue. But she lifted up her head and smiled a bit. “Could you play something for me? A lullaby? Just before going to sleep for the night… if you don’t mind, of course.”

She was surprised to see him smile back. It was shy, but at the same time, she couldn’t help but find it so genuine.

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll lead you to my bedroom. You’ll sleep there until I arrange something for you.”

“Oh… that’s very thoughtful. But… where will you sleep?”

“I’ll find myself a spot. I don’t sleep much, anyway. And as you might already have guessed, I don’t have many guests, so to say. But you’ll hear me play very well from where you’ll be. The house has excellent acoustics. It can get handy. You never know what can happen…” His dark tone did nothing to reassure Meg’s growing but still unsteady sense of safety.

“What… you mean…” she blubbered.

“Don’t worry about yourself. I’m here.”

“Oh. Of course.” During their dialog, they had existed the parlor, arriving in a corridor lit by torches where Erik pushed a door for both of them to enter a bedroom which was also candlelit and looked every bit as comfortable as the parlor… if it wasn’t for everything, including even the bed’s sheets, being… black. Meg immediately thought of a funeral as she gazed around, and only became even more uncomfortable as she thought of the person who usually slept there.

_The Living Corpse._

“Perhaps you’re used to more… cheery colors,” Erik said somewhat snidely. “But this is only temporary.”

“I’m fine. I really am,” Meg replied, annoyed by Erik’s derisive tone. “Anyway, I’m certain you are such a maestro you playing the piano will get me asleep quickly,” she added with a cheeky smile.

“I’ll let you judge by yourself,” Erik said. Meg was able to see a glimmer of smugness mixed with some sort of mischief in his eyes, as he bowed in a way it was obvious he just kept on teasing her. He closed the door behind him, leaving Meg alone as she took off her slippers and the jewelry she was given. But, without a nightgown, she was forced to keep the rest of her clothes on.

She slipped in the bed, trying to ignore the black sheets as much as she could and closed her eyes, thankful that the candlelight was dim enough for her not to be disturbed by their light.

She finally heard the sound of a piano echoing through the walls.

Meg opened her eyes and gasped. The melody was soft and somehow dreamy, but for some reason, it reminded her of… herself. She almost heard the sound of her voice in it, similar to a little bird’s, and with some sort of lightness and innocence in all its pluckiness. It was familiar. And for tonight at least, she felt safe.

All was left for her to do was to close her eyes and fall in a peaceful sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Her first impression when she woke up next morning was how much she enjoyed sleeping in a real bed after all those weeks, then suddenly wondering where she was. Her mind still blurry, she panicked at the sight of the candlelight being the only illumination in the room, with absolutely no windows letting the sunlight in.

All the anguish she had faced in the last few weeks suddenly gripped her at the throat, and the only way she found to chase it away before she would drown in it was to scream.

She heard footsteps towards the room and the door slamming open, as she saw Erik enter, visibly alarmed, and then making her remembering immediately what had happened yesterday. Her ears heated in embarrassment.

“What happened?” he asked in a single breath.

“I… I don’t know…” she blubbered. “I didn’t remember where I was, and it was dark, and no windows, and… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have cried and…" 

“It’s fine,” Erik replied, dismissing everything with a wave of his hand.

“No, I slept very well, better than I did in weeks…” Meg remembered the beautiful music that had put her to sleep and finally smiled. “You know… you play beautifully. I mean it. I think… I never heard anyone play like that. Where did you learn?”

Erik perused his lips before responding. “My… mother taught me a few bases. I learned mostly by myself.”

Meg’s eyes widened in admiration as she clapped her hands together. “Oh, that’s amazing! How… I didn’t even think it was possible to do that! I mean, Maman always says that you only become good at something with a lot of practice. So because of that, she makes us do a lot of rehearsals. Sometimes I thought I really hated them, because there were rehearsals _all the time_ , but it did pay off, I guess. Oh, and the melody! It was so pretty! What is it called?”

It took a few seconds for Erik to realize Meg had asked him a question. Her prattle, which he wasn’t used to – well, he wasn’t used to prattle in general – had caught him off-guard. He saw her tilt her head with a bit of a perplex expression, before he cleared his throat.

“I… improvised,” he finally managed to mutter. “I tried playing something that I thought suited you. That’s all. It’s really nothing much.”

“You improvised?” Meg let out a little yelp of wonder, before her face scrunched up in a way Erik couldn’t help but find a bit comical. He felt the corner of his lips twitching up. He tried to keep them straight. But it was hard. “You’re making this up to impress me,” she said, unable to hide a mischievous glint from her eyes.

“Well, child, you’ll just have to admit some people have genius within them, that’s all.” Erik smirked and smugly glanced at Meg, while she crossed her arms with a cheeky smile.

“Whatever. And I’m not a child,” she added, even though it occurred to her that saying such a thing probably wasn’t the smartest way to prove her point, especially as she saw Erik’s smirk only widening. “Anyway, what time is it? I can’t tell here.”

“Last time I checked, it was eleven o’clock in the morning.”

Meg gasped in shock. “Eleven? _Eleven?_ I shouldn’t be sleeping that late!”

“Well, your mother isn’t here to tell you what to do,” Erik mocked. But the words had barely escaped his mouth that he immediately realized his mistake, as Meg’s features grew sad and worried. He had never learned to watch his tongue…

“Have you got any news of her? How is she? Is she… not treated too badly? Is…” Meg asked in one breath.

“I haven’t received any news of her,” Erik interrupted her. “But for all I know, as long as you’re with me, she’s safe.”

She then clasped and squeezed her hands together, as she lowered her head daintily and nodded. An awkward silence then installed itself. Erik knew that it was his turn to speak to keep some sort of conversation going, but the issue was that he never really learned how to have one… Not to mention (though he was frankly quite displeased to admit it to himself) that his interlocutor was a girl, admittedly quite pretty. Oh, she wasn’t quite his type – Erik would sometimes dream of a tall, willowy silhouette, a pale complexion, red lips, dark hair, a melancholic demeanor.

Meg Giry was quite the contrary. She had her father’s blonde hair. She was so petite she barely reached his shoulder, and her cheeks were still round. Her features seemed to be a strange blend of a cherub and an puckish flower fairy. And there were her grey and expressive eyes, similar in color and shape to her mother’s, now looking at him questioningly, straight in the face, in a way it made him frankly uncomfortable.

Erik remembered once again all the masquerade that had taken place only yesterday, and the way it was all arranged, at least in appearance and in a lighter perspective to shake the old bachelor he was out of celibacy.

And that it was going to be that little imp who was going to do so was simply unbearable. On a first impression, one could think she could be easily impressed. It was true, to an extent. But there was fire resting within her, and that, during all of her sheltered life, hadn’t been teased. Now came the time where she would have to spit it out more and more. She was naïve, but she was quick on her feet. And it was obvious now that she didn’t like to be stepped on said feet.

Erik started fearing for her, now that he thought about it. She was a little paladin heading straight towards danger, her sword and her head high, and towards heroism and certain death.

It could be said of her that she probably looked at mere people as if they were characters in a play. For all that she was intelligent and intuitive, she knew nothing of real life and of genuinely ill-intentioned people lurking around. Her mother certainly hadn’t help the matters, but it was hard to blame her.

And now, he was in a risky position, and he had to shield Meg from the Persian court. He now realized that if something happened to her, Anouar would never forgive him. And to deceive the woman that had saved his life so many years ago was unbearable.

“How did you meet Maman, anyway?”

Meg’s question suddenly jerked Erik out of his thoughts. He suddenly felt very reluctant to revealing it to her, and he was already thankful Anouar had decided for some reason not tell anything about him to Meg. His past was full of very unpleasant memories – exactly the kind he had always kept buried deep within him in order to keep on going, since it hurt too much.

The best thing to do was to give an explanation that was short, but to the point.

“I was a prisoner. Your mother saw me while she was out of Persia for a while and saved me, and brought me back with her. That’s all.”

He didn’t want to remember the carnival. It was during those times where he still thought he was human, somehow, just like his mother. He had realized with time that it wasn’t the case. But he knew that he was no animal either like all those people watching him in that freak show thought he was. Once free, he would look at all the other human beings around him, and realize that he was gifted in so many ways that they weren’t, and that, in a way, he was superior to them. As the Angel of Doom, he had become more than a living being. An entity, rather, and that concept had made its way in his mind and settled steadfastly.

He wasn’t human. He was perhaps more than that. And that was what had kept him going, coaxed in this illusion of power he had at court and that he hadn’t broken out of yet.

Meg was looking at him questioningly. It was obvious she suspected that there was more and that he didn’t want to tell. Erik was almost certain she was going to pressure him with questions until he’d be driven crazy, but to his surprise, she shut her mouth, while an awkward silence installed itself again.

Erik coughed slightly.

“Are you… hungry?”

“What?” Meg replied. He hadn’t realized that he had muttered his sentence quite unintelligibly.

“Are you hungry?” he repeated very quickly. “Do you want… tea? Or… bread? Or tea with… bread?”

Meg smiled. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

To be honest, she was starving. She hadn’t had anything yesterday morning, and in the past weeks, her distress had been so great she had had no appetite. Now, everything was far from perfect, but with this very small glimmer of hope that maybe, now that she could find allies with Erik and uncle Nadir, she could save her mother and run away, she had found her appetite again. It was a very naïve and certainly delusional hope, but the anticipation of a better tomorrow had always been Meg Giry’s main motive to go forward.

She had settled herself in the parlor, near a table not too far away from the piano. A few minutes later, Erik had come back with what looked like some sort of bread, except that it was very… flat, and two cups of tea. Meg reached for a cup, thanking Erik, blew a bit on the tea in order to cool it down, and took a sip…

…to spit it back in the cup straight afterwards.

Then, realizing that she had been quite rude and that if her mother had been there, she would have been severely grounded, she lowered her head and blushed so much she felt her ears heating.

“It’s lemon tea,” Erik simply said, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Oh,” Meg replied dumbly. She then attempted rather heroically to take another sip, and gave an inhuman effort not to wince. Tears came up her eyes as she finally swallowed.

“I think I’ll have a bit of bread,” she muttered, grabbing one of those flat things that didn’t look even baked.

It wasn’t too bad, though she wished she had a bit of butter for a while. Maybe butter didn’t even exist in this place. Who knew…

“You aren’t eating?” she asked Erik, remarking that he remained silent, sipping his tea while totally unfazed by its sour taste.

“I don’t eat much,” he simply stated.

“So that’s why you’re so thin,” Meg said to herself. It took however a fraction of a second to realize that she had spoken out loud, as Erik stared at her in an unreadable way and as she slapped her hand on her mouth.

“I’m so sorry! I really didn’t mean it!”

“Of course you meant it,” Erik replied, his tone even. The only subtlety Meg could see was him biting what little of lips he had, as if he was retaining them from twisting upwards. “Apologies accepted. It’s not a thing I’m especially worried about, if you see what I mean,” he continued darkly. “My mother could barely nourish me when I was a child, so I guess I kept the habit of not eating much.”

Erik had barely finished his sentence that a loud knock heard itself at the door. He grumbled something, probably some curse, that Meg didn’t understand, as he rose to his feet and went to open.

Meg rose up as well, and soon saw Erik opening the door as a guard showed himself.

“I come from the Khanum’s behalf,” he announced in a heavily-accented French. “She was quite eager to know how you and your bride-to-be are doing.”

“Quite fine, thank you,” Erik snapped, and was about to close the door abruptly before the guard interrupted:

“She asked me to insist on whether you… enjoyed her,” he added maliciously.  

It only took Erik a fraction of a second – seeing Meg pale and swallow, and the guard’s snide smile that only gave him a picture of the Khanum’s current state of mind – to let out a cry of rage and grab the guard by the neck, dragging him inside to pin him on the wall.

It took a second for Meg to come back to her senses, after the initial shock, and to see that vicious glimmer in his eyes while he was not quite strangling the guard, but at the same time, it was obvious Erik was clasping his neck just tightly enough for the guard to gasp by fear that he would squeeze a bit tighter and then deprive him of breathing.

And of course, Meg’s first reflex was the same as always.

“No!” she yelled, running towards Erik and trying to pull on his arm in order for him to let go. It was no use. Despite his skinniness, he was much stronger than he looked.

But she had at least managed to get his attention. He was now looking at her with surprise, aghast at the mere idea that someone had been brave enough to stop him.

“Let go of him. Now.” There was no pleading in her tone. There was command, perhaps quite laughable because of all the girlishness it still contained. But shoving her away like a little girl would certainly do no good.

“He insulted you,” Erik then sneered. “Don’t come and tell me you’re forgiving him. And if I don’t give him a good scare now, believe me, they won’t stop. What they want is a good show to gossip about.”

“What do you mean?” Meg shouted. “Is that of their business?”

Erik let out an utterly humorless chuckle. “Of course not. But that’s precisely the point. Don’t you see, little Meg? The poor maiden forced to satisfy the appetite of a Living Corpse, how morbid! How amusing! They don’t care about you, nor your mother. They’re keeping her alive to make sure you stay with me.”

He felt a sort of satisfaction to see Meg starting to tremble. But it was all because he finally saw that perhaps, the whole gravity of such a disgusting situation was finally starting to dawn on her.

But he was more than surprised to see her straightening again.

“Well, maybe if you overact like this, things will only get worse!”

“There’s always the benefit of a doubt, little Meg.”

“EXACTLY! SO LET HIM GO!”

She could shout pretty loudly, for someone so tiny and with such a bell-like voice. Erik let go of the guard but, furious to have been yelled at by such a little imp of a girl in front of a servant of the Khanum, stared at Meg, and straightened up, lowering his head in a way he clearly looked down at her with contempt, hoping to show in front of a witness who was in charge…

It was useless. Meg Giry was staring at him just as intently as he did, crossing her arms, her face scrunched in a scowl and clearing showing she was having none of it. She even had enough nerve to turn away from him, her head still high, as she asked the guard coldly:

“Was there anything, monsieur?”

“Yes,” he replied, uneasily getting up and clearing his throat, with a slight tremor in his voice. “The Khanum also said she’s having everything arranged for your wedding next Sunday. It will be public, of course, and there will be an outing for both of you in the afternoon following the wedding for everyone in Tehran to witness your happiness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I haven’t updated in ages. But studying three languages at the same time is hard! But thankfully, I’ll be studying Spanish instead of Chinese, so my time given for studying will be a bit shorter. Also, send a few thoughts and prayers for my family. It would really be appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

"Well, that is quite fortunate. I always wanted to have a wife to take on walks on Sundays."

The sarcasm in Erik's voice was palpable. Thankfully, it hadn't got into an outburst like earlier that day. Meg had sat down her forgotten meal, uneasy, while Erik would pace around in a way to calm down his anger.

"Well, there's no use to keep on complaining about this. It was to be done, anyway."

"Of course I knew it was bound to happen. I'm no fool," Erik snapped. "I just didn't expect all this to become a public event. They could make us do anything in front of hundreds of people and we'd be powerless to refuse."

Meg lowered her head. She wished for a while that she could say something useful, something that would have to do with her taking charge, at least partly. Her life at the Opera house now seemed so easy, with all those silly conflicts happening from time to time at the corps de ballet and where she sometimes had to play the mother since Madame Giry was after all overloaded with work and certainly would want nothing to do with those childish arguments. There were some girls who quite liked Meg, and others who didn't, but were either clever enough or too scared to show it since she was, after all, Madame Giry's Daughter. She had, because of that non-official title, a certain position of respect among the ballet girls, and whenever they were frightened, or sad, or angry, they would often turn to Meg, whatever their relationship with her was, more or less secretly depending on the circumstances.

Thinking about the corps de ballet made her shift her gaze towards the piano, and back to Erik, as a smile slowly formed itself on her lips.

"Well… instead of wallowing over that, maybe… well, I haven't danced for weeks, and my feet are aching… could you play something for me?"

Meg almost regretted to have spoken, as Erik's gaze jerked towards her and as he furiously glared at her.

"But of course, dearest," he sneered, imitating Meg's chirping tone in such an eerie way she shivered. "Let's forget about all this and think only of happiness and sunshine!" He let out a dark chuckle. "You're just a child, after all. Why would you care?"

Meg let out an annoyed sigh. Oh, certainly, she was young, and her mother would complain at times on how rash and impulsive she could be in her outbursts of joy, but Erik was getting patronizing. But it slowly occurred to her that perhaps he… didn't have quite the same perspective on life. She straightened up. He was rather hard to grasp. She had had her share of grumpy people, in the past – Monsieur Reyer was certainly one of them – but Erik was a whole other matter. She knew him only since yesterday, and it was already obvious that he had quite a temper. What did play in her favor was that he was on her side. Or rather, they were, considering the situation as a whole, on the same side, since it both advantaged them.

She was not a child. She never admitted it out loud, but she hated when someone else than her mother called her "little Meg". She hated when someone would tease her on her height. She hated when someone would look down at her condescendingly, advising her by a single glance that they thought she was nothing more than a silly little girl who still hadn't lost her baby cheeks, and who was only good to twirl around and look pretty.

Erik was supposedly the man she was going to spend a lifetime (or at least a good part of hers) with. And no matter who he was, she was not going to let herself be belittled by him.

"Well, _monsieur_ ," she snapped, insisting ironically on the "monsieur" in a way she tried making similar to his own sneering, "I'm not one to believe that wallowing all day about the trials of life is going to help me in any way. I understand my request may have come out all of a sudden, but if wallowing all day suited you until now, it's not going to work anymore. Not while I'm around."

"Oh, so you think I'm going to let you twirl me around your little finger?" Erik sneered. He came closer to her, in an almost reptilian way. "It perhaps worked with your suitors back in Paris, mademoiselle, but not with me."

"For your information, monsieur, I didn't have any suitors," Meg replied, lifting up her nose. "But if you want to keep going that way, well… I'll be doing my own thing, then."

She then resolutely turned away from Erik, not even glancing once to see what his reaction had been to her final words. She looked down at the slippers she was wearing, and found herself missing her pointe shoes – she wouldn't be able to perhaps impress that big, pessimistic, prideful… man with her dancing on pointe. She decided to go barefoot. It'd be more comfortable than having footwear she wasn't even used to walk in.

"You were a ballet dancer, weren't you?"

Meg twirled around upon hearing Erik's voice. She tried reading his expression, but, certainly thanks to the mask, it was utterly indecipherable.

"Yes," she replied. "I was even starting to get a few solo roles."

"That's surprising. You certainly don't have the build to be a ballerina. They have to be lanky and tall. And being dark-haired always helps, since the great Italian ballerinas are all brunette."

Erik certainly didn't expect Meg to let out a sigh so exaggerated it seemed as if she positively _fumed_.

"Oh, well what do you know about the matter, monsieur? What do you know about ballet and opera and all that? I get told that all the time! "Oh, mademoiselle Giry, when it comes to technique and emoting, you are the best in the corps de ballet, really! It's a shame you are so chubby, and blonde, and tiny!" My God, someone was once stupid enough to tell me I should be dancing at the Moulin Rouge or at the Folies Bergères instead!"

Erik's eyes had widened at the outburst. Meg could imagine eyebrows lifting up as well. It brought her a strange sense of satisfaction, for a short while.

"Well, if you get told that all the time, mademoiselle, and that I say the same, perhaps I know more than you think," he replied coldly.

"That's not the point," Meg retorted. "You may know about music and playing the piano and everything, but I bet you've never been in an Opera house in your life!"

"You know nothing of my life, mademoiselle." Erik said, always as coldly. "I had assignments outside of Persia. I had the opportunity of assisting in secret at representations of the Russian or Italian Ballet, and also at quite a few operas during my time in Italy. I _was_ in charge along with your uncle to find your parents, after all."

Erik couldn't help but smirk while seeing Meg crumple her face in annoyance, but for once unable to reply anything. "What I meant, however, mademoiselle," he continued, on a softer tone, "is that you may not have the build for a ballerina, but for you to start getting a few solo roles, you must have some talent. Especially that I must say your mother certainly mustn't have helped you in any way in your career as a dancer."

"Oh." Meg said flatly. She felt herself blushing again. Did she ever hate blushing in front of him!

"If it contents you, mademoiselle, I'd accept to play while you dance with pleasure."

In another context, Meg would have beamed, squealed and jumped in excitement. But Erik's behavior was so unexpected all she could do was smile a bit. But there was a sparkle in her eyes which showed the intensity of her sudden joy quite well, and which didn't go unnoticed by Erik.

He slowly installed himself at his piano, letting Meg stretch. She was careful to do it as well as she could, since she had been quite a while without dancing. It was hard, since her excitement manifested itself by the tip of her feet tapping eagerly on the ground while it didn't look as if she had some sort of control on it.

Once she was done, she looked down at her feet with a frown.

"What's the matter?" Erik asked rather impatiently.

"Oh, nothing," Meg sighed. "It's just that I don't have my pointe shoes. It's a shame. I like how I look when I dance with pointe shoes. It looks as if I'm floating. Oh well. You can start."

"And what shall I play for you, mademoiselle?" asked Erik, seemingly indifferent to what she had said before.

Meg sighed, as a thousand melodies with different rhythms resonated in her mind and as she found herself unable to choose. "Anything you want. I'll go along and improvise."

He started with something with an well-paced rhythm in order for her to stretch. But he quickly saw, though it was barely perceptible, that there were signs of boredom in her body language.

And so he became vicious.

He made a sudden change of tempo, as the music took a rather frenzied pace. Meg jumped at that change, and glanced at Erik in surprise. All he could do was to respond with a curt nod, but it stung more than anything else he could have done as some sort of mockery.

He couldn't help but feel a small pang in his stomach when he saw Meg's eyes sparkle as if she was defying him.

It didn't get any better when she started to dance – no, _really_ started to dance. He had no idea if she knew what she was doing. He wanted to inwardly snort and tell to himself that she probably had a swarm of suitors she would twirl around her little finger, but that rather cynical idea quickly vanished. For heaven's sake, she _was_ Anouar's daughter, and Anouar was probably just as protective as three fathers. This concept made their whole situation rather ironical…

She was a little temptress, and she didn't even realize that. She was probably one of those _belles gens_ from medieval tales, fairies who would seduce knights who were afterwards never seen or heard of again, supposedly because the _belles gens_ had abducted them to their realm. Meg didn't look the part at all. She looked more like one of those flower fairies who had no other purpose but to cause innocent mischief.

It made her all the more dangerous. She didn't know she had a power.

The music became more aggressive, and quickly switched to something he never thought he'd play in front of Meg Giry – not _her_ , of all people!

He expected her to collapse on the ground, in a trance – his music had that effect on people, and this was grander than anything he had ever composed.

He saw her struggle. He saw her feel the pressure, but she didn't fall. And he didn't see a girl anymore. But a woman.

He finally let out the final note, begging for this paradox he couldn't understand to stop, as he distinctively heard Meg let out a deep breath. For a moment, Erik stared dumbly at one of the piano's keys.

"Well, monsieur, I think I did mention I haven't danced for weeks! It's a miracle I actually made it without collapsing on the ground!"

Erik glared at Meg in disbelief. _Really_? That was all she had to say? He expected her to be on her knees begging!

He was even more perplexed by the fact that she looked at him questioningly, as if she couldn't understand his almost lethargic state. She turned away, heading back towards his room.

Erik simply let his head fall on the piano, letting a discordant sound come out quite loudly.

"Is everything alright, monsieur?"

* * *

To be honest, Meg realized that for the first time, she didn't exactly remember how she felt when she danced.

She remembered the music. It was quite unlike anything she had heard until now, and she had had her share of rather strange scores. There was something… disturbing. Disturbing, yet appealing.

She had to admit she wouldn't have minded listening to it again, except more attentively. But she had a feeling she wouldn't hear it again, at least for a while. Or maybe even never again.

If there was one thing she loved about ballet, it was becoming another character entirely. She wasn't just little Meg Giry anymore. She could be a swan, a mechanical doll, a ghost, a sylph. When she danced, she danced with soul, since she entered a whole new world she created herself and in which she was the empress. It gave her a strange sense of power, and she loved every single bit of it.

She remembered that old fortune teller she had seen once, when she had gone to a fair with a couple of other ballet girls. Said fortune teller told her that in 1882, she'd become Empress. Of course, Meg stayed polite with that old lady, but once she came out of the tent, she couldn't help but giggle about it with Pauline and Sophie.

Perhaps it was a very lovely metaphor to say that she'd become prima ballerina. Meg didn't believe in fortune telling, of course. But it was a nice thought.

It was now 1881, and she was in Persia, with next to no hope of going back home one day. It was hard not to cry in front of the irony of the situation.

It could have been comforting for her to dance again. But the music, unlike anything she had heard before, had confused her in her creating an interesting interpretation.

She danced. She didn't know what she was doing, however. All she could remember was her trying to dominate the music, but not succeeding. It was frustrating.

It was Erik's fault.

He had challenged her. She had accepted it without pondering about it two seconds. Well, she had to admit that it would have been quite hard to just refuse. There was no way she would have to deal with Erik's condescending demeanor. She had had a taste of it earlier, and it was one of the most irritating things she had ever experienced.

She had impressed him, judging by how… haggardly amazed he was afterwards. She couldn't help but smile and bit her lip in an attempt not to laugh out loud as she reminisced.

Meg Giry had more power and strength that she thought she had, even in a situation such as hers. And this was only the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to make this clear – I will make no guarantees about how frequently I will update. If I give myself deadlines, I'll butcher my chapters just to get them posted as quickly as possible. I hope you don't hook off this story though, because that'd be the last thing I'd want to happen! I'm a perfectionist when it comes to writing, especially when it comes to characters, their essence and their interactions. Not to mention that there is so much Star Wars in my life: managed to watch all 6 films in one week (I'm pretty damn proud of myself while I shouldn't, but I did also work at my job 40 hours per week during that time because I need money, so basically no vacation for me except on Christmas and New Year), saw TFA, and my fingers are prickling for SW fanfiction because I'm trash while I have this to write. So yeah.

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. Madame Giry is Persian. 
> 
> I just want to say that the idea doesn’t belong to me – it’s first of all PeekabooFang’s idea, and I have her permission to run with it. All credit goes to her. And also – go and read her phanfiction, Yellow Rose, which is published on Fanfiction.net. It’s TOTALLY worth your time.


End file.
